What's in a Name?
by quinnley1
Summary: One name, two syllables, seven different pairs of lips speaking it. An eternity of possible meanings behind each utterance.


"_Buffy …"_

There is always something else. He may not say it, but he doesn't have to. The word that sounds so odd to many comes out in a huff, a push of air, and trails off nearly every time. There is something more he needs to tell me, but he can't get it out. When I was younger I know for a fact it was his impatience with the fact that I didn't throw my entire being into my calling. The glasses would come off, the handkerchief would come out, and my name would trail off to give him a moment to collect himself before he yelled at me. Now, I know exactly what it is that his stuffy upbringing won't allow him to speak. That pregnant pause takes the place of "I love you", even when we're mad at each other. He never says it, but he doesn't need to. I hear it without words.

"_B."_

Can never quite tell if she calls me B as an insult, or a favor. After all, Buffy is a rather ridiculous name, maybe it's her twisted little way to show me some modicum of respect. Yet it always leaves her mouth like she's saying something that tastes bad; sour, burnt, and needing to be spat out while questioning why she ever let it be there in the first place. Or perhaps she says it that way because it's her way of getting back at me for not saving her; for not seeing her falling and catching her before she crashed. I know how she feels to be the one forced to be everyone's savior, but never knowing if anyone will ever come to her rescue in the end. We'll never be close enough for me to ask her which one it is.

"_Buff."_

Another nickname; completely different sentiment. From the humble beginnings of a schoolboy obsession with a real-live "superhero", to the deep yet platonic love between too friends-cum-comrades, he has always said my shortened name as if there is something I'm not catching on to. At first I figured it was his jokes that he thought I didn't get, then it was his crush. Now, I'm not so sure. I guess he's right then. What this man doesn't get though is so much more important. This is my life, I was made for this. He on the other hand is normal; he could have the average life I crave by just turning around and walking away. Yet he fights (and has single-handedly stopped an apocalypse) with no special knowledge, no magic, no slayer strength because it is the right thing to do. He is the real hero among us but doesn't know it, and he still says my name like I'm the one not getting the joke.

"_Buah-ffy."_

The most complex and yet completely simple way anyone has ever said my name has always fallen from the first person I have ever loved. From the time that I kept her in the dark about my life in the dark up until the day she left me, her voice always conveyed that she loved me and understood. For a long time, I believed that she was naive to think that she could understand what I really was; what I was facing every day. It wasn't until it was too late that I realized that I was the one who was naive. Of course she understood. She understood, and accepted, that she would never truly understand but that it didn't matter at all.

"_Buffy."_

From him, my name can be anything. It is our greeting. We never say hello, because we can never say goodbye; instead we only ever say each other's name. It is his chastisement. His apology. His declaration of love. His explanation. His reason. His frustration. From him, my name is everything. Every time my name passes through his lips, it's as if he is touching me with his voice. It's the only kind of touching we can have as much of as we want. For now anyway; because sometimes I can hear what else my name is to him: a promise.

"_B-Buffy?"_

From her my name always used to sound like halting question, as if she was unsure she should even be allowed to speak to me. The stumbling, breathless way my strange name passed her lips always seemed to puff me up a bit. She helped me feel like the hero I was supposed to be. Now that she's older, stronger, and more confident my name is comes from her in calling out to an equal. Yet, there is always an undertone now … she almost seems grateful; as if I helped her become the powerful woman she is today. Silly girl; she doesn't even know that it's completely the other way around.

"_Slayer!"_

Now this one is a bit tricky. Pet. Bitch. Luv. Slutty the Vampire Slayer. Goldilocks. He has run the gamut of names for me, and it's amazing how the same word can come out of his mouth in hatred one day and completely drenched in love the next. Towards the end there when he did actually say my name, it was always with reverence. Almost as if saying my name was sacred and he had to whisper it so that only we would hear it. Long ago, when we both still believed he would kill me first chance he had, my name was a taunt only and not who I really was to him. He called me Slayer because he was the only one who saw that it wasn't what I did, it was who I was. It's a thin line between love and hate, and we've been dancing on that line for years now without knowing it.


End file.
